


that one where sam wears nail polish for the first time

by rei_c



Series: The Genderfluid(ity) 'Verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bisexual Dean Winchester, Bisexuality, Extremely Underage, Finger Sucking, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Identity, Gender Issues, Genderbending, Genderfuck, M/M, Nail Polish, Pet Names, Protective Dean Winchester, Sibling Incest, Theft, Understanding Dean, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 13:13:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5870974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean steals some nail polish, Sam tries it out, and then suddenly Dean has a lapful of crying little brother and he feels like his world's just tilted seventeen degrees to the left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	that one where sam wears nail polish for the first time

Dean and Sam started their -- _thing_ , whatever they feel like calling it on any given day, when Dean was sixteen. Not sex, definitely not; Dean has one or two morals, thank you very much, and fucking his little brother way before Sam's legal in any sense of the word is just -- no. They do start kissing, though, and Dean's so paranoid that he's taking advantage, that he's _making_ Sam do this, that Sam's the one who pushes them on to the next step every single time: frenching, touching, jerking off while the other watches, jerking off _on_ the other. 

Even with as much as he loves Sam -- and he does, there's no denying that, he's sixteen and still a virgin -- Dean does, though, like the look of a woman's smooth, hairless legs, loves the nail polish and make-up and the way girls' hair always smells like something, fruit or the ocean or whatever weird-ass shit they're putting on it now. Dean's curious about what a chick would feel like under his hands, around his dick, but only ever once in awhile. He has Sam, why would he want or need anything else?

There's something about a red-tipped nail on flush-pink candy lips that just really _does_ it for him, though, so Dean steals a couple bottles of nail polish to try out a week after his seventeenth birthday, just in case. He gets his thumb done, looks at it, kind of grimaces, and spends the next ten minutes trying to get the shit off. 

Sam finds the bottles before Dean can throw them away. One of them's a poisoned-apple red, the other one's black, and Dean comes home from work one night to see Sam asleep on the couch. He smiles, goes over to put a blanket on the kid -- shithole they're in can't even warm up enough to melt the ice on the _inside_ of the windows -- and freezes when he sees the hand that Sam's got flung over his face. 

Every single one of his nails is painted motherfucking blood red and Dean has never wanted anything more in his entire godforsaken life, christ. 

He moves, somehow, makes his way to the couch and drops to his knees. Sam's other hand is hanging off the couch and Dean picks it up, cradles Sam's hand in his as he looks, takes in midnight black on Sam's stubby little nails. Dean can't help himself, has to get his mouth on _anything_ , so he lifts Sam's hand, sucks one of the fingers into his mouth. He can't even tell there's polish on them, not from the taste, so he scrapes his teeth just a little, feels the difference in give and drag. Fuck. 

"I was gonna take it off 'fore you got home. You like 'em?" 

Dean lets Sam's finger slide out of his mouth as he looks up at Sam, feels his heart break and then reform eight times bigger with all the love he feels looking at this skinny-ass kid with bedhead and half-open eyes. "Yeah," Dean says. "But -- why?"

Sam rolls over onto his side, blinks sleepily as he yawns. "Dunno," he says. "Sometimes I -- sometimes I just wanna feel different. Y'know?"

"Different like what?" Dean asks, gentle now, because he's heard the hesitance in Sam's voice. "Come on, Sammy, talk to me, here." 

"Different like special, I guess," Sam mutters. His eyes are closed now, head tilted away, flush of shame on his cheeks. "Different like -- different like pretty. Like --" 

He trails off there, body pressed into the couch like he wishes it would just open up and swallow him down. Dean lifts his other hand, runs it over Sam's forehead, down his cheek, to rest gently on his collarbone, the small strip of skin revealed there. "Like what, Sam?"

"You're gonna think it's stupid," Sam says. There's a moment's silence and stillness but then he's up, batting Dean away and scrambling to the other end of the couch, curled in on himself, chin on his knees, shoulders tight with the defensive posture Dean's only seen his brother take a handful of times in their entire _lives_.

"I promise I won't," Dean says. "Have I ever told you anything you've thought was stupid? Have I ever done something to break your trust? And, I mean, if you're worried -- you woke up with me suckin' on your finger, Sam, it's not like I'm upset you're into this." 

Sam unbends enough to look at him, study him. Dean's content to wait; Sam needs time to think but he's always thought faster than average, and if this means as much to Sam as Dean thinks, he's been thinking about it for a while now. 

He looks back down at his knees as he answers, "Like I'm something precious. To be protected." 

Dean sits back on his ass, feels like someone just landed a haymaker right to the heart. Sam's his little brother, his baby brother, the centre of his entire life. Without Sam, there would be no Dean, just an empty shell of a kid who lost his mom in a fire and his dad to vengeance. Sam is -- Sam is everything, and hearing that Sam wants to be thought of the way Dean always has but tries to reign in, it lightens something in Dean, something that makes him think being seventeen and waiting for his kid brother's birthday -- jesus, he still has years to go -- to have sex will be _more_ than worth it. 

"You think I'm stupid, don't you," Sam murmurs. "Think I'm weird or -- or wrong or gross." 

"No," Dean says, an instant response. He crawls to the other end of the sofa, reaches and gets one hand on Sam's chin, takes one of Sam's hand in his, the one with the scarlet nails. His eyes stay on Sam the whole time as Dean takes Sam's hand, presses a kiss onto every single one of those painted nails and, when he's done, he says, "Don't think you're weird or gross or stupid. I think you're wonderful, Sammy." He pauses, tilts his head just a little, says, quieter, "Think you're fucking perfect. Sweetheart." 

Sam shudders -- legitimately, actually, really shudders -- hearing Dean say that. If that was all he had to go on, Dean would think that Sam's disgusted or pissed off, but he's looking at Sam, has one of Sam's hands in his, and Sam's gripping him tight, looking back at him with the kind of love and awe and devotion and wonder that Dean's felt for Sam since the moment Sam was first placed in his arms. 

"You don't have to say it just to make me feel better," Sam says. 

Dean wants to go out and kill everyone who made Sam think that feeling this way is so wrong that his own family would turn on him -- that _Dean_ would turn on him. "I'm not," he says. "Never have, not to you, and you know it. I just -- I never knew, didn't have a clue. Is there -- is it just -- fuck," and he shakes his head, gives Sam a rueful smile. "I don't even know how to ask you what I wanna ask." 

Sam uncurls, slides off the couch to straddle Dean's lap. He tucks his head in Dean's neck, whispers, "Say it again. Please?" so quietly that Dean almost doesn't hear. 

Dean closes his eyes, wraps his arms tight around his brother, and murmurs, "So fucking perfect, sweetheart. Just right, like you were made for me. All mine. My -- my sweetheart," and he can't believe he's allowed to say it, much less that Sam wants to hear it. 

A moment later, Sam's crying, little hitched-breath sobs and fought-back tears, and Dean can't hold Sam any tighter but he tries, he tries so fucking hard. 

"It's okay, Sammy," he says. "Sweetheart, sshh, it'll be okay. Everything's fine."


End file.
